


I, Wisdom (Dwell With Prudence)

by thisisnatasha



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Depression, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, POV Matt Murdock, Post-Season/Series 03, loosely based on the comics but also not really at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:34:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22433482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisnatasha/pseuds/thisisnatasha
Summary: One day, Matt would like to be happy for real. It's hard to be happy when all you've ever done is hurt people and lie to them.Aka, laughter, conversations and a promise.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 81





	I, Wisdom (Dwell With Prudence)

**Author's Note:**

> “Prudence does not mean failing to accept responsibilities and postponing decisions; it means being committed to making joint decisions after pondering responsibly the road to be taken.” - Pope Benedict XVI

Matt hurt people.

For the ever-growing list of people that knew about Daredevil, this was obvious. They understood that his knuckles came home, fucked by violence, sated with his perverted version of justice. They understood that he did it to protect, even if they didn't agree with him doing it, and he nodded along with them. He wanted to be sure of that righteous answer. He didn't think about the alternative too much.

But he also hurt people outside of Daredevil. The sick men and women that he denied prevailment in court, but he didn't generally care much for them— not when he knew all of the lies and truths about what they did and did not do.

No, he hurt people he knew and loved because he lied. All the time.

And he knew— Matt _knew_ he was supposed to be honest.

Like confession, or penance, or both.

He didn't really know how to tell the truth all of the time, to be honest, like he was told to be. Sometimes lies just spilled from his mouth like oil, staining his perfectly okay-ish record.

Like when people asked how he was, and he was supposed to say, "Awful," and then elaborate on that, but instead he just said, "Fine."

He never meant it and nobody ever quite believed him so he wasn't sure what the sense in him saying it was, but he soldiered on regardless, trudging his bare feet through the burning snow when people kept offering him shoes.

He was learning that, for some inane reason, for every fiery step he took, Foggy and Karen would take one with him. And then, there they’d be, three shoeless people in winter. He didn't quite understand the sense in that, why _his_ choices should affect theirs, but they were dedicated to their cause. They got bruised and they got brittled because they spent time with and put their care into one Matthew Michael Murdock. And they still wouldn't put on their damn shoes.

There were times in college that Matt had come so close to telling Foggy the truth, that his "migraines" were really him being overwhelmed by the world _breathing_ because he genuinely could not handle being alive with all of the sensory information licking at his skin— but he had still persisted in being alone. Sometimes it was when they were just sitting, side by side, probably drunk and just coming down from a session of hysterical laughter. When Matt only had the singular thought of, _“I love you,”_ playing in his head and he couldn’t quite figure out a coherent reason why he shouldn’t tell Foggy. And once, he’d gotten as far as _starting_ only to find that Foggy was fast asleep.

It was a bit like that all the time, nowadays, except that Matt had no idea where to start because he didn’t even know what it was that he had to tell. All he knew was that he’d had this throb at the back of his head, like overcast weather or an electric storm or both, gnawing at him for long enough that he didn't remember when the beginning was. He couldn’t quite trace to when it had started, couldn’t think of an instance that might have begun it all, but he could remember opening his eyes one morning and feeling so heavy that he was sure he couldn’t move.

Except he did move, because he’d had work. He’d gone through the day floating and hadn’t really stopped ever since. Like a scribble pressed so deep into the paper that he could almost read it. Almost, being the key word. _Something_ _is_ _wrong_ , was all he had to say. They’d figure it out from there. But even when they were drunk and happy and for once, Matt felt light-headed, he’d turn his head, both his friends wide awake, and he’d say nothing at all.

The point here, was that Matt was a liar and a fraud. He lied like other people loved and was masquerading as a hero when he relished in the blood like a villain.

Karen and Foggy deserved better. But then, he'd _been_ down that path before, and for every punch he took, he bruised the people he wanted to call his friends— whether the hand that hurt was a criminal's or his own.

That was a lesson that he had learned.

He was to walk with them, or they would all wallow together. He wasn't about to be the one weighing them down.

And so, he made a promise.

.

.

.

“So.” Matt began, and then stopped. He hadn't planned out his sentence before he'd started speaking.

“So…” Foggy prompted, after a beat.

Karen had gone from the office, investigating a new case that she hadn't bothered to share with the class, so Foggy and Matt were sharing a somber drink alone together like their old days.

They'd finally moved out of Nelson's Meats, because as much as Matt loved the smell of dead animal carcass _("Matt, it's_ food _," Foggy would chastise)_ , he was glad they'd finally gotten their own place.

The new office was structured a bit the same as the first— only, this one had Matt and Foggy's rooms side by side while Karen worked in the main area. It was small, but Matt was told it had a certain allure to it. Also, roof access.

Remembering his promise to himself, Matt perked himself up and plastered on the smile that he knew was charming, from people's past reactions to it. “You wanna go down to the farmer's marker with me?”

Foggy did not seem to think it was charming. “Uh, today?”

“Yes, Foggy, _today.”_

“Um. Well, I suppose. If you want me to.”

Matt nodded once and stood. He kept the smile. “Good! Something to look forward to.”

He could _hear_ Foggy's frown.

“Something to look _forward_ to…” he heard his friend mutter.

Matt nodded, maybe to Foggy, but if it was, it also doubled as a reassurance to himself. Everything was fine. No— everything was _great_.

The sun, the weatherman had told him, was shining deceivingly brightly for such a dreary August day— still too cold despite the warm rays. Supposedly, Matt had a whole week of sun to look forward to.

… Supposedly.

.

.

.

“You want a peach?” Matt asked, plucking one from the pile and fishing out a few dollar bills to pay the vendor with. One peach was only fifty cents, or so he was told, but he was feeling generous.

“Uh, yeah. Sure, Matt, I'd like a peach.” Foggy replied, grabbing the offending fruit from Matt's hands. “What about you? No peach for you?”

“Well, alright.” Matt said, counting back a few steps to grab another peach with a smile. The lady did not complain. He briefly wondered if he’d made sure to fork over dollars instead of twenties.

As Matt found his way back to Foggy, he took a bite of the fruit and it dribbled over his chin. 

“You're unusually chipper.” Foggy commented, taking a bite of his own peach. It had the same effect on his chin as Matt's had.

“Am I?” Matt asked, walking further through the aisles of the market to a sweet smelling table. Though Foggy was guiding Matt, Matt was the one leading. “I've always been much more of a fan of homemade jams. The ones from the store just taste like chemicals.”

“Oh, yes.” the vendor chimed in, “We use no chemical! All fresh.”

“Hear that, Foggy?" Matt grinned. "All fresh.”

“Can't you still taste unwashed hands or something?” Foggy muttered under his breath and through his chewing. Matt neglected to tell him about the gross squelching sound peaches made, and made a gross squelching sound of his own when he, himself, took another bite.

“You're so bitter.” Matt told him, although Foggy was technically correct. He chose a random jar in the back and hoped that he would like it. He forked over what he knew was a twenty, which surely covered the cost.

He took Foggy by the arm and walked the two of them away as the woman shouted about their change.

Quite a few jewelry booths were set up; Matt could hear the glittering tinkle of metal and gems on display, the light breeze caressing the smooth stones. He adored it when Karen wore necklaces or earrings that dangled.

He thought about asking Foggy to help him buy something, but decided against it.

There were definitely less people milling around than there had been when they'd arrived. Which is why, after a quick sniff of the air, Matt was able to make a sharp right turn with Foggy in tow and zero bodies colliding. Foggy made a yelping sound, but did not otherwise complain about the changing direction.

He did, however, grouse, “Where are we going _now_?”

After a beat, Matt said, “Here.”

It was a bit overwhelming, being around so many floral aromas at once, but when focusing, he could still pick the flowers apart.

He never knew which ones to choose anyway.

“Have something in mind?” the vendor asked, a tall man with a medium build.

There was a moment's thought and then Matt asked, “Got any peachy colored flowers?”

“Your friend can fact-check, but these are some peachy roses right here.” said the man. There was some rustling, and then the flowers were handed off to Foggy, who handed them to Matt. Well, they smelled nice. It wasn't as if the recipient was going to complain.

“Yeah, they're peachy alright.” Foggy explained. “Like flowers for a wedding.”

“Well, weddings are happy occasions.”

“Matt, we're not _going_ to a happy occa—”

“I'll take the peach roses.” Matt told the vendor with a cheery tone paired with his charming smile.

"Bouquet?" the man asked.

"Why not?" Matt answered, keeping the smile as he handed the man three bills that he’d folded as a twenties. He'd forgotten how much flowers cost.

But anyway, _this_ guy thought the smile was charming, if his butterfly heart was to be trusted. It could've also been the sixty dollars Matt handed him.

"You know you just gave that guy fifteen bucks too much, right?" Foggy asked, and the vendor did not call for the change.

"Oh well." Matt dismissed.

He and Foggy walked away, roses in hand— the non-sticky, non-fruit stained one. Matt was standing close enough to Foggy that he didn't bother for guiding. The farmer's market was dying down anyway.

“What's with the fruit obsession?” Foggy asked, forced then to hold onto a peach core. Maybe they'd been a bad idea.

“They're _healthy._ ” Matt defended.

“No offense, but you're not really the poster boy for good health.”

This was true, so Matt just shrugged and pointed at a man selling wood chimes. Far too loud, a bit like a baby crying in his ear, but he had heard that other people thought they were nice to listen to.

“You ever want one of those?” Matt asked.

“No.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Matt said, and kept walking. The tables and booths were tapering off. They'd been walking for a while.

“It's getting kind of dark.” Foggy reminded him. Right. Yeah, it probably was.

“We should get going, then.” Matt said, running a little down the street and waving for a cab. Foggy huffed behind him.

Matt rattled off the address and slipped into the front seat of the taxi, dripping peach in his hand, which would surely not be popular with the driver.

“When did you become a front seat man?” Foggy asked, sitting alone in the back. Better him alone than burdened with Matt's issues; breath running like a man underwater, too far drowning to remember to swim.

He catalogued the driver— cigarette smoke wrapped around him like Christmas morning, fingers dipped in tobacco, fuzzy hair brushing against his button up shirt (he could hear the buttons sliding against the smooth of the fabric, and he was missing the third one down), and the smell of onions and cheese in the man's beard. Matt ran a hand through his hair, making sure he was wide awake— he didn't fall asleep in taxis or cars or busses, not anymore— and then he sat back with a deep breath, didn't think about water at all, and let himself relax as he answered Foggy's question.

“I like the view.”

.

.

.

Matt and Foggy abandoned their peaches in the too tall grass and Matt stuck the jam into his pocket— a bulky jar, sticking out of the side of his jacket.

It was not comfortable.

His hands were full. One was the one attached to Foggy, who was basically another limb to Matt. The other had the peach roses, which had been transferred to his still sticky fruit hand, slick with the peach's juices.

There was a little girl and her dad, crying a little ways away. She was sobbing more than she was breathing.

Matt was more than familiar with the feeling. He was sure that deep down, there was a part of him that still felt like that little girl. It wasn't healthy to keep thinking of these sorts of things though, years after he was supposed to be over it. He didn't cry about it anymore.

He was so over crying.

“There he is.” Foggy said, sounding relieved.

Matt frowned. “What?”

“The Matt I know.” Foggy replied, like it was a compliment. "You've been acting kinda weird all day, buddy."

Matt just frowned deeper.

Foggy sighed. “I'd swat you but… Doesn't really seem appropriate.”

“Don't know what you're talking about.” Matt told him. “I thought the swatting to non-swatting ratio was supposed to go _up_ during a family reunion.”

He let go of Foggy's arm and walked through the arched gate, letting his fingers linger on the iron for a moment before he passed. Sometimes it made him feel warmer in comparison to the brisk metal, but today he didn't feel much of a difference.

Maybe his lips were blue.

"You seem sadder than usual." Foggy said, catching up.

"I _am_ in a graveyard."

"Usually you aren't so…" Foggy trailed off. After a few seconds, he still hadn't completed his sentence.

"What?" Matt questioned.

"Never mind." Foggy replied. "Lead the way."

Foggy offered his arm and Matt took it. They walked through the faint scent of cannabis and further from the chimney smoke wafting from a few houses behind them. Ninth row, two to the right.

Neither Foggy nor Matt had changed out of their work clothes. There was a soft, chilling September breeze; their ties and cheap suit jackets lightly flapping in the air, cold wind determined to eat them alive. It wasn't Autumn, but it felt like it. It was either the breeze or the time of day that made Matt shiver.

He set the wedding flowers on his father's grave and knelt before the headstone. Jack Murdock had never really been a fan of flowers at all, but Matt used to find and bring him daisies and dandelions. Jack would put the daisies in cups of water until they started to wilt and he'd blow on the dandelions and tell Matt his wish, even though Matt always told him that would spoil it. _I never want you to grow up,_ Jack would say, _I want you to always be my little boy._

And then Matt would stick his tongue out, say something bratty, which would then trigger yet another session of he and Jack chasing after each other around the house, grins and smiles and all.

Of course, this was all before he lost his sight. When he was blinded, he stopped looking for flowers and Jack wouldn't chase him around the house anymore. His adolescence had been spent with contempt for the things he used to call pretty— and the things he used to do for fun.

Foggy was right. He was different, this year. Usually, these visits were a quick affair. He didn't want to be around for long, lingering in the spirit of a graveyard. 

But this year, his body was heavy and his mind was covered in an achy snow, his knees like they were buried in a grave of their own.

"I'm tired, Fogs." Matt admitted, smoothing his hand amongst the hard dirt, crumbling against his palm. It felt a little like him.

"It _is_ getting dark." Foggy said slowly. Matt thought that maybe if he could see, he'd be able to tell if Foggy was blocking the sunlight or if it was really just that cold. The breeze had gone and went. Foggy's weight shifted from side to side, distorting the ground. "But I have a feeling that the impending night isn't what you're talking about."

It wasn't.

He didn't even think he felt all that sad, sitting atop his father's body. The sadness was far away, like a place he'd been to but couldn't quite remember. Sometimes Matt fell asleep with his hand on his own chest, feeling his goosebumps— he was cold, always cold— reading skin like he read braille. Drifting off to the feeling of his skin pulsing against his own heartbeat.

Raising his face towards the heavens, he blew out a cold sigh, remembering the times as a child when he'd blow out puffs of air to see his breaths in the winter. He shut his eyes and it made no difference. He didn't miss his sight. He just missed being the same as everyone else.

"Buddy?"

Foggy was beside him, crouching and tapping on his shoulder. It really was just that cold.

Matt opened his eyes and turned to Foggy, who, with a laboured sigh, lumbered down to sit beside Matt, crisscross.

"I'm…" Matt trailed off. He'd never been good at placing his feelings, or putting his words into simple sentences rather than long metaphors.

Foggy waited patiently, his heartbeat a steady force beside Matt.

He reached out to touch his father's grave, tracing where he knew were the words, engraved, _"A Good Man."_

He wondered if his own headstone would say the same.

Sensing that Matt was getting lost again, Foggy tapped his shoulder. Turning his head to Foggy again, Matt said, without really thinking about it too hard, "I'm just tired."

"Of?" Foggy prompted softly. His heartbeat was too rapid to be called calm, but his voice had always been a soothing force.

Matt turned his head back up to the sky and leaned back, one knee down while he wrapped his arms around the other, as if holding himself close could keep him together. "Feeling like this."

Matt briefly wondered if Foggy was looking up at the sky too. Foggy didn't move, or maybe Matt wasn't listening. "Like what?"

Matt ran his hand into the dirt, disturbing it. It felt rough. The summer months had ran it dry, with very little rain. The last rainfall that Matt could recall was a few weeks ago. People kept saying it was bound to rain, _any day now, I can feel it._ He ran the dirt between his fingers before letting it fall in pieces. It was coarse; it'd probably feel better once the drought was over and the weather started up again.

"Dirt." Matt finally said, because he wasn't sure how else to phrase it. Feeling didn't come naturally to something like him.

He was beginning to see what Foggy meant when he said that Matt was a bit dramatic. Well, he didn't say _a bit_.

Matt reached for the jam and unscrewed the lid, placing it on even ground. Using his clean hand, but still faintly sticky, he scooped up a glob of jam and stuck it in his mouth. Foggy, apparently unsure what to say, did the same and immediately gagged.

_Now who's the dramatic one?_

"Not a fan?" Matt asked, a hint of a smile coming to his face, surprising them both. Or maybe just him.

"Eugh, what _is_ that?" he groaned.

"Cantaloupe." Matt informed him, forcing himself to be cheery and going in for another glob.

"I thought it was marmalade!"

"There's cinnamon in it too."

"Cinnamon? _Why?!"_ Foggy whined, flapping his jam covered hand around.

"And lemon, also." Matt added with a smile, because— yes. His face was doing that.

"I like all those things separately." Foggy huffed miserably, rubbing his sticky hand on the ground.

Matt shrugged, and licked yet another glob off his fingers before wiping his hand on his shirt. It needed a clean anyway.

Putting aside the jam and resealing it, Matt turned back to Foggy.

And went for a laugh.

"I'm getting you cantaloupe jam for your birthday."

"No!" Foggy exclaimed, in what could've been not mock-horror at all, but true terror.

“I’m going back there.” Matt continued, a smile on his face that almost felt genuine. “And I’m going to ask the jam-man for more. A crate full.”

Foggy tutted. “It was a jam- _lady_ , Matthew.”

“What— no, it was, it was both. There were two of them.”

“Jam-man-lady.” Foggy whispered.

"Jam-man-lady?”

“What a jammin’ lady.” Foggy added.

“But.” Matt complained. “The jam-man.”

“Do you have a thing for the jam-man?” Foggy asked seriously.

“Well.” Matt said, just as seriously. “Was he handsome?”

Foggy took a moment to answer, and Matt thought that, perhaps, he was thinking carefully of his answer.

In a low voice, Foggy said, “He had gigantic—"

“Mm.” Matt hummed. He muttered, quickly and quietly but loud enough for Foggy to hear and comprehend, “I don’t know if I like where this is going.”

Foggy tried his best to sound serious but shattered the facade with the obvious smile in his tone. “He— he had gigantic _cantaloupes._ If that sort of thing is important to you."

“The _jam-man_?”

“And a really long—” Foggy giggled. “A _really_ _long_ cinnamon stick."

Foggy switched gears and tried to explain, “I’m motioning to my—”

“No!” Matt objected, louder than intended, unable to lose his smile, “I don’t need to know—”

"You do if your baseball bats are gonna be going for the home run." Foggy said eagerly.

"Our— the— _what?"_

"You know, your guys' third legs. Noodles. Oak tree branches. French fries."

Matt grinned, giving Foggy the strength to keep going. In his lawyer voice, he said, "One member stands up and so too does the other, at full attention, about to make an objection."

Matt pulled his best serious face. "Ah, I see what you're talking about."

Foggy's voice went conspiratorial. "You do?"

"You're talking about bouncy castles, flutes and meat swords."

That got a laugh from Foggy. It was easy to make Foggy laugh. That never took the pleasure away from making it happen.

"Matt, we're good friends, right?"

"The best."

Without missing a beat, Foggy said, "Well, I've got a ten foot pole and I am not afraid to touch you with it."

Matt barked a laugh. He turned his head to Foggy, assuming Foggy was looking back. Foggy started giggling, which got Matt giggling. And then Matt really laughed. He laughed for real. Which got Foggy going, which kept Matt going too.

 _It really isn't that funny_ , he thought, edging on hysterical. _Stop it, you look psychotic._

And yet, they were both still laughing. Like psychos.

Maybe it was the stress; both of them having been coiled like springs or stretched tight like elastic bands. This was a release.

Foggy made it seem easy. Like if only he had had someone like Foggy all his life, he could've been alright. Matt went back to a kneel, folding legs and feeling freer. Lighter.

The laughing died down, which was more appropriate for a graveyard, but Matt still felt the lingering effects of their adrenaline, a warm tangle in his stomach.

"I wish you were my brother." Matt blurted out. His mouth spoke before his mind caught up. It was the truth, anyway. He liked the truth.

"I've seen you naked and I've seen you cry _and_ I've yet to give you or let _you_ give _me_ the moves, so we can be brothers all you want, as long as you can resist this Nelson charm." Foggy said simply, whimsically. _We_ are _brothers,_ was what Matt chose to hear.

"No, no." Matt said, and heard Foggy's heart play a violent game of hopscotch. "I mean, that too, but— I wish you'd been born with me. Okay, not born _with_ me, but, born before me. I wish you were my blood brother."

"I never thought you were one to care so much about blood, Mr. Daredevil." Foggy said, a soft prodding at something more.

Matt had gotten momentum with the first few sentences, building up speed. He was an engine, burning black smoke without direction.

"I think— I think I would've been okay when my dad died. Or, more okay. Less not alright." Matt said, peach rose scent in his nose. "If you'd been there. If I'd had someone who cared, like a brother, to tell me it'd be okay, even if I could hear their heartbeat skip. Someone who could sit beside me and listen, like you are now, and somebody who could cry with me, because they'd care just as much as me and I wouldn't feel so— so _stupid_ for being a crybaby. Or— or maybe if I could have had someone to stand with me. To tell me that I was worth _that_ much. The nuns never knew what to do with me. But you always did. From nearly the first day I met you.

"I think I'd have turned out to be a better man, if you had been there from the start. If you'd always just been an open door away, and I knew I could go at anytime if I was feeling— if I was feeling _anything_. Or if I just wanted to say hi. And we would have laughed, as loud as we did just a few minutes ago."

Foggy was quiet, so Matt spoke faster, still kneeling hard on the ground like a prayer.

"If I'd had a brother like you, I don't think I would have cried as much, or as hard. I don't think I would've bled so much, if I had known I wasn't alone. I wouldn't ever feel like I do right now. As long as I knew I wasn't alone. As long as I knew that I had you."

And then Matt was finished his embarrassingly long speech, left in a reddened silence. 

Foggy took a long time to answer. So long, that Matt was maybe thinking of abandoning this whole thing altogether— apologize for wasting Foggy's time, go home and find some nice, quiet blackness. Somehow.

"Well." Foggy finally stated cleanly, knees drawn up to his chest. "I'm here now."

"Sometimes I wonder if it's too late." Matt murmured. Usually Foggy didn't hear him when he murmured. He heard him that time.

"Too late for what?" Foggy asked.

Everyone was supposed to be saveable. And yet, Matt still heard the cries for Daredevil or _anyone, please_ ; he still heard all of the people he couldn't save. He still heard all of the people that he'd never have the chance to save again, or maybe were never supposed to be saved in the first place— according to God's plan. Maybe a death would have unforeseen purposes that would eventually further someone else's life— affect someone in a way that would make them do good, be better.

He wondered if he, himself was one of those unsaveable people or if his _anyone, please_ was right next to him. And what kind of effect his going to glory would have.

Matt sat and breathed, running his finger along the smooth rim of the jar's metal lid.

He didn't answer Foggy. Instead, he said, "I'm tired. And I don't want to be tired anymore, Foggy."

Matt waited for his friend to reply, but it appeared that he was too busy waiting for Matt to say more. So he did. "I want to be happy. I want to pretend that I'm twelve, and that I've had a best friend my entire life."

"I made a promise." He put on a crooked smile that felt more like a mask than he thought it should. "To myself, to be happy. Because I can't get rid of you two. Three."

In a hesitant tone, Foggy asked, "Do you _want_ to? Get rid of us, I mean."

"No." Matt replied quickly. "I never did. I just— I didn't want to burden you. I didn't want to be more of a burden than I usually am."

"You're not—"

"You can finish that sentence if you want but I'm not going to believe you."

"You're not a burden." Foggy finished. "I think you need to hear stuff like that, sometimes."

Matt made a sound of acknowledgement and with cheeks red not only because of the cold, he continued, _"I don't want to be a burden._ And I _am_ a burden, all the time." Foggy was ready to butt in again, but Matt butted in first. "Fisk figured out my identity. I've never been so lucky that bad things only happen once. History repeats itself, over and over again. I _will_ get you and Karen into trouble. Deep waters. As long as I am alive, I will care, and as long as I care, I will lead a trail to _you_.

"But." Matt said, putting a finger up before Foggy could get in his protests. "I can't get rid of you t— three. I can't get rid of you three. You, Karen and, um, _mom_ . I've been down that road before and surprisingly, I _can_ learn a lesson once in a while.

"You all have lives. Meanwhile, I have you three, Daredevil, and the law. It will take a lifetime to get over the loss of any one of you, but a year or two for one of you to get over me."

"That's—"

He didn't quite roll his eyes, but it was close. "I parkour on high buildings and beat up criminals who're armed to the teeth. _Nightly._ I don't have a death wish, but face it. I die? It'll be because I had it coming. You'll get over it." Matt snarled, more bitter than the words had tasted in his head. Foggy had begun on a word, but Matt trampled over the sounds with his own raised voice. "If my _very existence_ will be a burden on all of you, the least I can do is make it a light burden to carry. All I ever do is drag you three down. I want to be _happy_ , because I don't want to drag you into deeper waters than I have to."

"You wanna fake it 'til you make it." Foggy deadpanned.

"... Yeah. I guess." Matt said.

He waited for an objection.

Instead, Foggy said, "Okay."

Matt paused. "What."

"I said okay." Foggy repeated calmly.

"Um." Matt said cleverly. "Why?"

"Look." Foggy started, and Matt bit back a _how long have you known me?_ comment. "I don't agree with the grand majority of what you just said. If Karen and I thought you were as much of a burden as _you_ think you are, we wouldn't be your friends, and we wouldn't have fought to _stay_ your friends.

"If you wanna pretend to be happy," Foggy told him, "I guess go for it. I don't like it but I'm not going to stop you. I think we both know that if you've already decided you're going to do something, you're probably going to do it anyway with or without my blessing. Am I right?"

Matt grunted. Foggy nudged his shoulder against Matt's.

"I just want you to feel okay.”

"... Even if it isn't real?"

Matt had expected a much larger argument than this.

“You’ll end up okay.” Foggy said, brushing his shoulder against Matt’s. "Somehow, some way, in the future. I don’t know how, I definitely don’t know when. But you’ll be okay.”

Matt sat, numb.

"Just promise me one thing." Foggy said, holding a hand up. "Don't hold anything back?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, you can cheshire cat smile at your case files or whatever. But don't push everything else away. I don't want you repressing _more_ than you usually do. I can see where something like that would be going."

Matt didn't answer.

“And hey.” Foggy continued. “I’ll be your brother, if you’ll let me. My door is always open— even if the light’s off, you can come in anyway. You know, if you’re feeling down. I’ll be there if you’ll just open my door. We’ve fought and I’ve certainly said things that I regret to you. And I’m sorry if I’m ever the cause of you feeling down. Or if you’re sad, but you don’t want to say. I know when you’re sad, Matty.”

Matt turned his head to Foggy.

“I’m shrugging.” Foggy told him, and continued. “You’re sad most of the time. And I think I could help. If you picked up the phone and gave me a call. I’d be there in an instant. That’s what brothers do. They listen, when they need to listen. Even if they don’t really listen one hundred percent of the time." Foggy chuckled, then. He flexed his fingers against the dirt. "They’re there for each other. And I want to be there for you. I mean it. You feel down? You call me. And we can laugh as loud as we did, just a few minutes ago.”

Foggy paused, and Matt let his words imprint themselves in his mind like a tattoo that he didn't want to admit he liked.

"Did you hear a skip in my heart?"

Matt shook his head. He hadn't.

They called a taxi and went home surrounded by the quiet, Matt's mouth sewn mute.

.

.

.

Life went on. Matt smiled more and he laughed more. He thought that maybe Karen and Foggy did too.

He was righting some of his wrongs, making more of the right choices. He was uplifting his friends, he was creating more good, more happiness within Nelson, Murdock & Page.

He still felt the same. But that was okay.

This wasn't about him.


End file.
